


Five Times Gawain Hit The Mark (and one time he didn't)

by likethenight



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: 5+1 Times, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethenight/pseuds/likethenight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gawain usually hits the mark. Usually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Gawain Hit The Mark (and one time he didn't)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sasha_b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/gifts).



> Written during NaNoWriMo 2011, when I wrote 50,000 words of fanfic rather than a novel. I asked for prompts, and the lovely [sasha_b](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b) gave me this one. I'd never done a 'five things/five times' before, and I had lots of fun with this. It was also great to write in one of my favourite fandoms, for the first time in about six years.

**Five times Gawain hit the mark:**

**one**

Gawain's aim had become almost impeccable over the years, especially when throwing knives. It was a pastime at which he'd had a great deal of practice, being, as it was, something the knights could do indoors, when there were no patrols to go on, no native insurrections to put down, and when it was too wet and cold to go out and spar in the practice field or school the horses in the paddocks around the fort. They got enough practice fighting in the rain when the Woads attacked in wet weather, which was often enough, since it never seemed to stop raining in this godsforsaken country; though they were hardened to it, none of them were inclined actively to seek out any outdoor pursuits when the heavens had opened, and so, more often than not, they would congregate in the tavern to drink ale and throw knives. Of course, it had the added advantage, for some of them at least, of being a particularly impressive spectator sport. The gasps and little exclamations from the women of the fort, gathered to watch, never failed to make certain of the knights puff out their chests and goad each other to ever riskier manouevres.

Gawain was not one of these. He threw knives merely to improve his aim, to keep his senses sharp, and he was, after fifteen years of practice, able to hit the target reasonably accurately even on his fifth or sixth flagon of ale. He didn't much care about impressing anyone; which was probably just as well, given that Tristan had a habit of deflating everyone's smug satisfaction at knives well-placed.

On the eve of their liberty the knights congregated in the tavern, the mood lighter and more carefree than it had been in many a month. Vanora and her serving girls kept the ale flowing freely and when, after a few flagons, someone suggested throwing a knife or two to pass the time, challenges scattered left and right among the knights and the Romans, Gawain and Galahad were only two among the group that gathered by the throwing-board. Each man took his turn, to cheers from the onlookers when he hit close to the centre of the target, and to laughter and howls of good-natured derision when he didn't. Gawain, still laughing and not entirely steady on his feet, stepped up to take his turn, weighing the knife in his hand, meticulous at this as in everything else, even when, as now, he was already well into his cups. He sighted carefully, took aim and threw, the knife whistling through the air and coming to rest in the board with a dull thud, right in the centre. There was a split second of awed hush, and then a whoop of triumph from Galahad as Gawain made to step forward and retrieve his knife. He stopped dead, though, as something whizzed through the air by his ear, and he rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he saw the knife now quivering with its point buried in the hilt of his own.

"Tristan, how do you do it?" he protested, and heard the crunch of a bite being taken from a crisp apple as his friend stepped out of the shadows behind him.

"I aim for the middle," he said laconically, retrieving his knife, and Gawain rolled his eyes again, good old Tristan, stating the obvious as usual, drawing attention to his uncanny aim and his almost mystical calm. But then, that was Tristan; and no matter his friend's liking for showing off, Gawain had hit the target first. And he had impressed who he wanted to impress, regardless of whether he needed to or not. That was enough for him.

 

**two**

"It seems to me," says Gawain, slowly and thoughtfully, "that it is an uncommonly selfish god who punishes his faithful follower by taking the lives of his friends." He takes a sip of ale and looks Arthur in the eyes, steady and undaunted. Once he would not have dared to speak so boldly to his commanding officer, but the times have changed; they are all older now, they are all different, and they are commander and soldier no longer, Arthur and he. Now they are a king and his loyal knight, his steadfast councillor, and these days Gawain feels that he can speak his mind to Arthur in matters other than military. "And it seems to me," he says, "that it is an uncommonly capricious and vindictive god who demands that his faithful follower should sacrifice his own life in order to guarantee the safety of his friends."

He pauses, measuring his words. He has rather come to enjoy these philosophical discussions with Arthur. It wasn't something that had crossed his mind much, before, and he had always been a man of few words when it came to his beliefs, his feelings and thoughts; but Arthur had needed someone to share his theories with, his faith and his fears, and Gawain had been the only real candidate. Guinevere was a warrior, not a philosopher; she was passionate only about the freedom of her people, and besides, much of what troubled Arthur were things that she could never have helped him with, implicated as she was in the twists and turns of Arthur's regret and self-recrimination. Galahad wasn't interested in serious talk, or so he said, and Bors proudly claimed never to have had a deep thought in his life. So Gawain it was, now that Lancelot was no longer there to argue with Arthur.

Gawain is fairly certain that the discussions he has with Arthur are a hundred leagues away from those Lancelot had had; on more levels than one, but they never talk about that. Gawain sees the pain in Arthur's eyes and measures his words, speaking carefully and calmly as he advances his theories. Lancelot had tended to lose his temper, unable to reconcile Arthur's faith with his own view of the world, and more often than not the entire fort would have been aware of his frustration before he calmed down.

"If your god is a god of love and compassion," says Gawain, "perhaps he did not take them from you. I would say that their destinies were not his to control." He takes another sip of his ale. "I would say that the Father of Battles took them to himself, for they had served him more than well. And he gave them into the care of the Horse Mother, who blesses and watches over us all, and they were reborn as her children on the plains of Sarmatia. They belong to their gods, as you belong to yours. You shouldn't blame yourself for what happened. They went bravely to their destinies and now they are at peace."

Arthur is silent for a long time, and Gawain is a little afraid that perhaps this time he has said too much. But eventually Arthur speaks, and it is with a wry, amused smile.

"I so often forget, Gawain, that you too are a man of deep faith. Not to mention you speak the most sense of any of my men; you always have." He chuckles a little, softly, sadly. "I think perhaps you are right. Your gods are not my god, I've never questioned that. I suppose I should not question that your destiny and those of all my knights do not belong to my god." He sighs. "It does not lessen the pain; but I will try to leave the guilt aside. Perhaps it's arrogance, to try to bear all the responsibility; they made their own decisions, after all." He lapses into silence, and Gawain nods.

"That they did, every one of them. And they all chose to serve you. Rome gave us no choice in our servitude, but our loyalty was ever to you, not to Rome. That was our choice to make, not yours, and we made it gladly; we could have done no differently."

Arthur doesn't smile, but he does begin to look a little as if a great weight is no longer bearing down upon him. And Gawain feels a quiet satisfaction, at perhaps having brought his king - his friend - a small measure of peace.

 

**three**

It often used to irritate Galahad that Gawain knew him so well. "Am I transparent," he would demand, "am I made of glass, that you can see right into me and read my thoughts? Does it never occur to you that you might be getting it wrong?"

"Never," Gawain would say, with a smile, "because I always get it right. don't I?" And Galahad would growl and mutter something, and he would either storm off or sulk for a few minutes, and then break out in a smile again, depending on his mood.

The night in the courtyard, when the bishop broke Rome's promise to them, was a time for storming off. Gawain said, "I'm with you. Gahalad, too," and Galahad smashed the amphora of wine he was holding and stormed off. Gawain sighed and turned to follow him, conscious that he was going to have to talk Galahad down in time for them both to be able to get some sleep before they had to ride out. He noted, as he went, that the amphora had been all but empty, not so much of a sacrifice as it had at first appeared; that was typical Galahad too.

He found Galahad in the practice arena, sitting on one of the benches, hanging his head and muttering to himself.

"You know what, Gawain," he said without looking up, "you can take your 'Galahad too' and shove it up your…"

"Shut up," Gawain said, not unkindly. "We might owe Rome nothing, but we still owe Arthur our loyalty, and you know it."

Galahad made an incoherent growling noise and then fell silent. "You know what the worst thing is?" he said after a few moments, his voice slightly unsteady with drink, continuing before Gawain had a chance to hazard a guess. "I'll tell you what the worst thing is. The _worst thing_ is that you're bloody right _again_. It's Arthur, of course I'm with him. And it's you. I'm not letting you go without me. Even if that whoreson of a bishop is sending us on a fools' errand that's like to get us killed within a day - what's a high-born Roman family doing north of the Wall anyway?" He snorted. "Bloody idiots deserve everything they get if you ask me, but _since_ they need rescuing and _since_ our freedom is riding on it, then I'll go, but I'm not doing it for the bishop and I'm not doing it for those bloody idiot Romans. I'm doing it for Arthur, and I'm doing it for _you_."

"I'm honoured," said Gawain mildly, only half-hiding his smile. "See, I _was_ right. Maybe I know you better than you know yourself."

"Maybe I'll surprise you one day. Maybe you'll find you don't know everything about me, after all. I never _told_ you most of it, anyway."

"You didn't have to," said Gawain. "I know how to read you, that's all."

Galahad snorted. "Like Arthur reads his bible. And how are you suddenly so sober, anyway? You had at least as much to drink as I did."

Gawain shrugged. "Someone needed to have some common sense about it. Dagonet needed backing up. And so did Arthur." He paused, and smiled. "Arthur has his holy book; I have mine. Now come on, we've got to get some sleep if we're to be fighting fit by dawn."

"Sentimental bastard," Galahad muttered, but he allowed himself to be led out of the practice arena towards the sleeping quarters. Because, of course, Gawain was right yet again.

 

**four**

It seemed to Gawain, when he had time to think about it afterwards, that his entire service, the fifteen years of his life as a soldier, had somehow been leading inexorably to that day on the ice, the seven of them standing against the Saxon horde, the only thing between the Britons and the invaders. Every battle, every skirmish, every turn in the practice arena and every knife-throwing match, everything he had learned and seen and done, his life forged and tempered and honed and come down at last to a point as sharp as that of his sword: the seven of them and a desperate last stand. It had to work; there was no other option.

And so they stood, ranged across the ice as the Saxons approached. The exchanged glances, wary but unafraid, or at least trying not to show fear, for this was all a show, in the end; Arthur's band were showing the Saxons that they were not feared, that they could be defeated, and that this tiny but determined band of men (and, of course, woman, let there be no forgetting of Guinevere) intended to be the ones to deliver that defeat.

They drew their bows, drew a collective breath, held as one, on the brink of the fight, and for a long moment Gawain felt himself frozen in time, caught up as if he might never move again. And then Arthur gave the command to shoot, and he raised his bow, sighted, and let his arrow fly, watching its arc as far as he could before it mingled with the others, soaring and peaking and falling to strike at the Saxon ranks, making them shift and scatter a little before they regrouped; but by then Gawain and his companions had already drawn their bows again, sighted and let fly, loosing their arrows over and over, aiming for the Saxon army's flanks. Make them bunch together, concentrate their weight on the ice, perhaps it would crack, perhaps it would place the ice under enough strain that it would break and dump the lot of them into the freezing water.

Gawain lost count of the number of arrows he sent whistling towards the Saxons, bearing pain and death upon the air. He was hardly conscious of his companions any more, beyond the sound of their breathing and of their own bows drawn tight, their own arrows nocked and aimed and loosed. All he knew was the sense of being one with his bow, just an extension of his arms and hands, his arrows part of himself, so sure was he of their flight, of his targets, the pale-haired Saxons, so far away that they almost blended into a great anonymous mass; but he thought that he could pick out individuals, seeing them clearly, one after another, men like him but not, men who had to be stopped whatever the cost, put into the water never to come out again.

Gawain did not realise that the price was about to be paid, when it happened, when Dagonet strode out across the ice, tall and brave, when he swung his great axe and brought it crashing down before him. The others tried to cover him, tried to pick off the Saxon archers who were shooting frantically at him, for he seemed to have stepped just within range of their bows; but they were too many and hard as Gawain and his companions tried to shield their friend, they could not stop all of the archers from shooting, and one arrow and then another screamed through the air to bury itself in Dagonet's flesh. And yet still he stood, smashing at the ice, cracking it and sending the cracks scurrying towards the Saxons' shuffling feet. And then, suddenly, so suddenly that he had no time to leap out of the way, the ice broke completely and Dagonet, weakened and wounded, toppled into the water.

Bors howled, and Arthur ran to the hole in the ice, and Gawain turned his attention to the Saxons again; now more than ever his friend needed cover, and his commander too. Arrow after arrow he loosed, with anger now as well as determination, anger and perhaps the first breath of fear, for if Dagonet could be felled, surely they all could? _Over my dead body_ , Gawain thought, acknowledging the irony to himself, and the certainty that it would indeed be over his dead body that the Saxons would march. If only the ice would break!

It seemed to happen in an instant, when the cracks in the ice finally widened and yawned open, the Saxons one moment shuffling and the next pushing and sliding and screaming as the ice gave way beneath them. Gawain kept shooting, the arrows in his quiver long exhausted and the heap of them on the ground behind him also growing lower and lower; he kept to the edges, driving more and more Saxons into the water as they tried to escape his arrows. He did not stop until the Saxon throng was, to a man, thrashing and screaming in the freezing lake.

And when he lowered his bow, reality broke over him like a wave of that lake water, cold and sobering; he awoke from his trance to Bors' anguished yelling and he realised that for all their determination one of their number had fallen, his freedom almost within his grasp. And although the Saxons were defeated, for today at least, the taste of victory was bitter as well as sweet on Gawain's tongue, for Dagonet was dead, and who knew what tomorrow might bring?

 

**five**

"My people used to fear you," Guinevere says to Gawain with one of those sidelong little looks, measuring him from beneath her eyelashes.

"And they don't now?" he counters, for he has discovered that the best weapon against Guinevere's manipulations is humour, tempered with a dash of sarcasm; he reckons that she can't manoeuvre him into a position he'd rather not be in if he's not taking her entirely seriously. Because she makes him nervous, to be frank, and he doesn't quite trust her not to make trouble between his friends if it suits her purposes, and he'd rather be armed and prepared for it.

She laughs, soft and breathy and with a note of genuine amusement, and another of those sidelong looks. Gawain really hopes she isn't flirting with him.

"Sir Gawain, the steadfast knight, the one with the axes, the one who always hits his mark," she says, and he can't tell if she's mocking him or not. "You have taken the lives of many of my people."

"And your people have taken the lives of many of my friends," he points out. "But now we are allies, and I'd have said it does no good to be dwelling on our past enmity."

"You're very wordy," she says. "Very wise. I can see why Arthur trusts you as he does."

Gawain shrugs. "I just say what I think. And I can read. Maybe I like to pick up words."

"Maybe you like the opportunities you have had to learn new things," she says. "Maybe you like all these things that you've learned, things that you'd never have learned if you'd stayed at home in Sarmatia. Maybe that's why you stay here."

Gawain narrows his eyes a little, wondering what she's playing at. "Or perhaps I owe my allegiance to Arthur. Perhaps Britannia has become more of a home to me now than Sarmatia." He pauses for a moment, for effect. "Although I wonder at myself, that I couldn't have chosen a home with better weather."

Guinevere laughs again. "You're still not used to it? Brave Sir Gawain, if you were hoping for sunshine, you should have asked the Romans to send you elsewhere, for you won't get it here."

"I take the destiny I'm given," he says. "No point complaining that it isn't entirely to my liking, for there's nothing I can do to change it."

"You're very wise," she says again. "Arthur values your loyalty, you know. And so do I." She leans a little closer, and Gawain sends a quick, silent prayer to whichever gods happen to be watching over him today that she isn't about to test his loyalty in the most obvious way. He just looks at her, calm and steady, and she flashes him a smile, a bright, genuine one, full of amusement, and he has the feeling he just passed her test; he sends another prayer to his gods that it was so easy. "Sir Gawain," Guinevere says, "you are indeed steadfast, wise and loyal. There will always be a place for you in the new Britain. Besides," she says, with a mischievous grin, "it's as well to have a way of keeping my people in line. I think they fear you still. You and Bors and Galahad; your reputation precedes you. Best not to give them any indication that you might now be less fearsome."

Gawain doesn't quite know what to say to all that, but he raises an eyebrow, just a little, and inclines his head to acknowledge her words. "I still have my axes," he says after a moment, "and there will be other battles. The Saxons will return."

"And we'll be ready for them," she says, and the determination is like steel in her voice. 

"We will," says Gawain, for this is his homeland now, too, and he will defend it to his last breath. He hopes that Guinevere will work out, in time, that there's nothing about him to manipulate; he is straightforward and honest and loyal to Arthur, and unless her intentions run counter to Arthur's, she will find in him a steadfast ally. She still makes him somewhat nervous, but then she probably always will; he's never really understood women, and he has no time for schemes and intrigues. Best not give her any opportunities to make any, not with him.

 

**...and the one time he didn't**

"So," said Gawain, a little warily, a few days after everything had calmed down, after Arthur and Guinevere were married and the Britons and the Romano-Britons and the Woads were settling down to eyeing each other warily and beginning to make overtures towards each other. "I suppose you'll be going home, now?"

Galahad gave him an odd look, somehow managing to combine confusion and irritation in one glance. "And I suppose you'll be going home to that wife of yours? And rejoicing in your good fortune that all your children will look like you and not Lancelot?" His tone was sharp, almost angry, and Gawain blinked in confusion. 

"There isn't a wife. There never was. And I didn't really intend on finding one."

"You seemed to have it all planned out," Galahad said, still with that edge to his voice.

"I was just…saying things," said Gawain, wondering why he was having to explain this to Galahad; surely it had been obvious all along? "Joking around with Lancelot. Letting him exercise his ego, you know what he was like."

Galahad snorted, but didn't say anything to that, and they fell into an uneasy silence, punctuated only by the whoops and cries of Bors' children, who were busy running their father ragged with games and chases and mock battles, giving their mother a well-deserved respite.

Eventually Gawain sighed, realising that he was going to have to explain everything very slowly and carefully to Galahad, since he seemed determined not to understand. "I never had any intention of going home to Sarmatia and finding a wife. I didn't want the wife, and now I think of it, I don't think I want Sarmatia either. Sarmatia was the home of my childhood, but now…" he paused, "now I think perhaps Britannia is my home. My friends are here, though too few of them now, my commander is here. And there's work to do here."

"So you'll stay here and find a wife, and you'd pack me back off to Sarmatia and forget…" Galahad closed his mouth with a snap upon the rest of his sentence, and Gawain looked at him in complete confusion.

"I thought you wanted to go home," he said. "You talked so much about it. I just assumed that'd be what you'd do, now."

Galahad made an exasperated-sounding noise. "Gawain, are you a halfwit? Have you somehow lost your mind? I wanted my freedom. I wanted the freedom to decide where I would go, the freedom to decide where my home might be. I talked of Sarmatia because it was the only home I thought I knew. And because I thought that would be where you would go, too." He made the exasperated noise again. "But there is work to do here, indeed. And you're here. So of course I'm not going home. I'm staying here. With Arthur and Bors and with _you_. Idiot. Do I have to spell it out to you? I'm already home, because my home is where _you_ are."

Gawain blinked, feeling his heart jolt wildly within him; he'd hoped for this, of course he had, but he had been trying not to, because he'd been so sure that Galahad wanted to return to Sarmatia. He himself could not return, he knew that now, for he could not leave Arthur alone with his new nation, and because he had realised in the last few days that this green, damp land was indeed home to him now, but he had thought Galahad felt differently. But now here was Galahad saying that he was staying too, that he couldn't leave either, that he wanted to be where Gawain was just as much as Gawain wanted to be where Galahad was. And for once, Gawain didn't quite know what to say.

"Idiot," said Galahad, more softly than before. "Told you I'd surprise you sometime. But you really shouldn't have been surprised by _this_. I thought it was obvious." He paused. "I take it you don't actually want to pack me off back to Sarmatia?"

Gawain blinked again, suddenly acutely aware of the uncertainty underlying Galahad's words. "Of course I don't," he said, trying to sound as emphatic as possible. "I just thought that was what you wanted. But I'd far rather you stayed."

"Well, then," Galahad said, sounding distinctly relieved. "Let's never have this conversation again?"

"Never," said Gawain, and he smiled. "I believe we've established what we needed to."

"I believe we have," said Galahad, and his smile was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. "I think that's the only time you've ever been wrong about me. Don't do it again, will you?"

"I won't," Gawain said, "I promise." And the laugh that escaped him at that was one of pure relief and happiness, and surprise at the way everything had turned out. There was still much to do here, but now he truly knew where his home lay, and that, he felt, would be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> (I wrote this without having seen the film again for a while...and consequently forgot that in the tavern scene it is in fact Galahad's knife that Tristan hits when he aims for the middle, and not Gawain's; oops!)


End file.
